


If at first you don't succeed

by midnightluck



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightluck/pseuds/midnightluck
Summary: In a world where Ace's guilt drowns out his rage, he goes looking for a way to change Thatch's fate.(what if canon Marinefordwasthe fixit?)





	If at first you don't succeed

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't a happy one yall

“Ho the cottage,” he says, tilting his hat back, and nothing happens.

That’s fine; he’s got a bit of time, so he waits, and sure enough an older woman comes bustling around the corner, trowel in one hand and bucket in the other. She comes to a stop a fair ways from the gate and looks him over. “Can I help you?”

“I sure hope so,” he says, pushing his hat right back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am; would you be Miz Matilda, by chance?”

She sighs and sets the bucket down, dropping the trowel in and wiping dirty hands along her apron. “I am,” she says. “You’re one of those, then? You’d best come in.”

He bobs his head a bit and takes a deep breath before he pushes open the small gate and steps in. If there was ever a time for his best manners, this is it. “Thank you,” he says, and makes sure the gate shuts behind him.

She motions him up to the porch and sits in the rocking chair there. He perches on the bench running sideways along the wall, hands gripping the edge and leaning a bit forward, and waits for her to speak.

“So what is it, then?” she says, looking off into her yard. “Some pretty lass jilt you? Broken heart? Looking to be strong?”

He swallows and inhales and keeps his voice quiet and steady. “No, ma’am,” he says. “My friend--”

She glances over at him, hand raised and eyes sharp. “If you’re using some of that doubletalk and mean yourself, at least have the bravery to say it, and if it’s really for a friend, know that I don’t deal with people I haven’t met.”

His fingers tighten on the bench, but it’s fair enough of her, really. He fixes his eyes at a point slightly to her left and starts again. “My friend died.”

There’s a moment of quiet, where the breeze rustles the bushes and the rocking chair creaks and the birds sing. Then she sighs and says, “You’re one of _those,_ then.”

He supposes he probably is. “I was told--”

“Yes, yes, never mind all that, boy. Let me have a look at you.”

He drags his eyes over to hers. It’s awkward for a moment, but her eyes are a warm kind of brown; pretty enough, and kind, and then the awkward passes into that moment of intimacy prolonged eye contact brings and there’s a rush of cold against his soul and brown is all he can see.

And then he blinks and the world comes back, like taking off sunglasses. He ducks his head. It wasn’t--he’d promised himself _whatever was necessary--_

He straightens his spine and looks back up, and there’s pity in her face. “You value his life more than yours,” she says, and he nods; of course he does. “No,” she says, so gentle, “you _value his life more_.”

He nods again. Thatch is--was worth more than him, objectively speaking, and that’s before the fact that it was his own _division--_

“What do you know about my fruit?” She asks instead, and he looks back down and shrugs. He’d heard rumors about fate changing and undoing mistakes and hadn’t asked further, but he’s not gonna admit to that.

She sighs. “I deal with balance. I don’t grant wishes, whatever trite nonsense the townsfolk told you; it’s all about worth and trade. If given enough surplus, I can nudge the balance into rearrangement, but it’s all got to be equal in the end.

“And you, boy--I could take your heart or your soul or your life or your time, but there’s nothing of yourself you can offer to equal the value you yourself have put on your friend.”

Because of course it’s his fault. His low self value and tendency to love truly and deeply has got him here, and there’s nothing he can bargain with because she’s not wrong.

Well, maybe he’s just asking for the wrong thing. “If I can’t buy his life,” he says slowly, “can I buy a chance?”

And the pity is gone, replaced by approval in the corners of her mouth and the set of her eyes. “You’re a smart lad,” she says. “Ask your questions.”

“What would a change cost?” he asks, desperately. “It was so close–so close. How much would it cost to make a wave wet the deck so Teach slipped, or maybe missed, or for Thatch to have a second’s more warning? How much would it cost to change a wind current just enough to make him have turned in time?”

Her mouth is firm but her eyes are soft. “That takes power as well, you know, but of a different sort. That’s the power of change, of time, of fickleness and words, and to guide it takes confidence and pain. Time magic and healing, it doesn't come free. Magic like that is fueled by sacrifice, not power. What would you sacrifice?”

What does he even have of value? Not his life or his heart, apparently; never his brothers. But sacrifice isn’t always giving something up--it can be accepting something, too. “How about my name?”

She squints at him. “Your bounty is high,” she says, “but not high enough. If you were famous as say, Whitebeard, your name would maybe work. I could rebalance time for you, if you burn up every memory of yourself in order to change one tiny thing.”

“As famous as Whitebeard,” he says, and then his arms wrap around himself but his chin comes up. “How about as famous as Gold Roger?”

“That would do it,” she agrees. “If your name was on every lip in the Grand Line, you could burn it all away in a single instant and have maybe enough power. Just enough. But no one will thank you for it, boy. No one will be able to. You’ll be forgotten and lost, living in greys and unrecognizable.”

And he laughs, sharp and bitter, because, “What do I care about that? I can put my name in everyone’s mouth, I can make my face so well known that the whole world curses me, but I’d never live through it. I don’t care about the consequences.”

There’s sorrow in her eyes, but she nods. “Come, then,” she says, “There’s lemonade inside, and we’ll see how much your legacy is worth.”

* * *

So he sets off to find himself a slow kind of suicide at the hands of a proven killer, and he goes after Teach. It’s a battle he can’t afford to win, and he gives up his freedom and his life and his name, and he does it quietly and willingly.

Teach captures him, gloating the whole way, and Ace spits at his feet and bites his tongue and doesn’t smile, because it’s exactly to plan. And it doesn’t matter what happens now at all, because soon enough it’ll never have happened at all.

And then Oars Jr. dies, but it’ll never have happened. Whitebeard dies, but it’ll never have happened. Luffy cries but _it’ll never have happened,_ and they’re all probably better without him anyway. So when it’s his turn, he dies with his brother in his arms and his name on everyone’s lips, just as planned.

It’s exactly right, and his last bit of flame is spark enough to burn down his own legacy. His name and life will be forgotten, fuel for a single second of chance to change everything, and he doesn’t regret it, not in the least.

He smiles, then, and thanks them for their love. He doesn’t ask to be remembered, because he really hopes he won’t be.


End file.
